Of all that were thy prisons--ah, untamed, Ah, light and sacred soul!--none holds thee now; No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed, Thou still would'st bear that mystic golden bough The Sybil doth to singing men allow, Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. And they would smile and wonder, seeing where Thou stood'st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, Caught from the Valois peasants, dost thou find A new life gladder than the old times were, A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?…
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